Whiskey and Rye
by Nancy Brown
Summary: Ianto never has done well with anniversaries. Part of "Straysverse"


Notes:

With deepest thanks to Eldar for the speedy beta.

Contains minor spoiler for GDL's comic "Shrouded" and "The House of the Dead." Technically compliant with both CoE and MD while flipping them off with both hands.

Warning: past character death

Sequel to Strays, Rescues, Ferals, Five Ways Ianto Got Back Into the Good Graces..., and Home Part One

* * *

Cardiff has been quiet these last three days. Ianto keeps thinking the Rift has been quiet, the Rift will be active, but he is shocked all over again when he recalls that the Rift is closed. Despite this, Cardiff still finds herself the centre of too much alien-based action, though not this week. Perhaps the unseasonable heat has driven even the worst of them into their burrows, awaiting proper autumn crisp air to come aboveground and start shit. Perhaps the alien gang in charge of London's otherwordly population has put out feelers both real and figurative all the way out here, telling the locals to keep their heads, or head-equivalents, out of sight. The gangster Mopolite runs things, and he has little love for Torchwood.

It's a bad sign that Ianto's considering this possibility here and now, lost in his head when he should be enjoying the sensations going on elsewhere in his body. Given the quiet, Jack's decided they are going into work very late. He has spent the last several minutes carefully tying Ianto into a more or less comfortable position: his forehead against a soft pillow, his wrists bound behind himself, body resting on spread knees. His eyes are covered with a black velvet cloth. Jack places a hot kiss everywhere he places a binding, making Ianto's skin pulse with longing.

Ianto can feel the motions of the bed as Jack sits back. He doesn't have to see his face to know how self-satisfied Jack looks right now.

"How is it?"

Ianto tests his shoulders and hips for signs of fatigue. "All right."

"I'm considering a gag."

Ianto considers this with him. Jack's asking for a particular level of trust this morning. After the fuckup in Brynblaidd, they'd done this with ropes and gags, Jack helping Ianto desensitize. As things turned out, enough orgasms could move Ianto past any number of previous horrors. Gags are no more frightening than spiders.

"Not today," he decides out loud.

Jack makes a noise in his throat, part assent, part desire, and he leans in between Ianto's legs. The bastard spends the next hour, maybe more, driving Ianto insane. Soft licks over his backside, and teasing close, followed by the softest puffs of blown air. Gooseflesh raises over every inch of Ianto's body, which Jack nips away with warm breath. Then, with no warning, Jack's open palm cracks two sharp slaps to each side, followed by gentle kisses. He refuses to touch Ianto's cock, which Ianto feels is unfair as fuck.

In deference to the gag request, Ianto bites his lip and stays silent, even when he wants to shout in sudden pain or the accompanying pleasure stimulation. He can't stop the ragged edge in his breath, and he can tell Jack enjoys the sound. A slick finger breaches him each time Ianto gasps. Without his sight, he can only rely on the touch of skin to skin and the bed's motions to alert him to Jack's next move. At every shift, he expects Jack to line up behind him, shove bluntly in, and rut until they're both spent.

The penetration doesn't come, and more maddeningly, neither does Ianto.

"Tell me what you're feeling," Jack says, suddenly hot in his ear.

The game has changed, then, and Ianto considers keeping it going. No words, no sound, only the two of them in the dim half-light of the morning, making Jack guess. "Tell me," Jack insists. Ianto never can say no to him when he pushes, not when it matters, and typically even when it doesn't.

"Alive. My skin's on fire, cold and hot." He's ready to beg for release, almost. It's not a game if he doesn't make Jack play as well.

A warm hand strokes his side, teasing down to the soft joining of torso to hip, ticklish flesh so close to his hard, bobbing cock. "Something you want?" Smug, insufferable bastard.

"Yes. You can untie me so I can take care of myself."

Jack lets out a low laugh, and then he takes hold of the situation himself. His firm strokes are slick as oil, and Ianto's been on the edge for too long. He holds back as much as he dares, not willing to surrender entirely, but one good twist from Jack's wrist has him coming all over the sheets with an embarrassing whine.

When he recovers, Jack loosens the blindfold and bindings, helping him stretch his limbs and restore any lost mobility from the long positioning. Ianto grabs him into a kiss, which Jack returns as Ianto manoeuvres them to the unspoiled side of the bed.

"We should shower," Jack says, disentangling with softer kisses as he pulls away. He's hard, Ianto can tell with a glance, but not as hard as expected.

He rolls to sit, whilst Jack pokes around the wardrobe for a shirt. "You feeling all right?"

"Never better." Jack tosses a white shirt onto the rumpled duvet. The sybaritic louse probably had one off before he started torturing Ianto. "Come on."

* * *

They arrive at work decadently late, the last two to roll in. Ianto takes a coffee and heads to the outer office, the space he's been converting to a new cover operation. "Collector in antiques and oddities" works far better than "quasi-police with no oversight" when tracking down artefacts held by unsuspecting grannies or yobs looking for easy money to stuff in their veins. The fact was, Torchwood London's corpse had been picked over by carrion birds both official and not, and Torchwood Cardiff's shattered remains had suffered the same fate. Perhaps it is this last thought, made as he inspects the decoy merchandise of the shop, that spurs him to half-heartedly check the date in the corner of his computer window.

Ianto blinks, thinking he must have read the numbers incorrectly, but there in electronic digits is the day and the month, although obviously the years have gone by.

This is the day he died.

Panic and horror send his heart racing. His mouth fills with bile. Cautiously, almost delicately, he places his forefinger over the pulse at his wrist, not counting the hummingbird beats but acknowledging them as proof of life. He reminds himself this is not the first anniversary, nor the second, not even the first that he's been … back. Last year, he had a child to care for and a new identity unravelling around his ears, and he'd ignored the date. Today had belonged to another man with a name he didn't use and a life he couldn't return to. But he has returned, this is his life, and today is the day Ianto Jones died.

He closes up the shop, a ridiculous farce. He's hardly open during business hours most days, instead poring over records and searching for clues to the whereabouts of the rubbish he brings back here to store away safely. Today he makes his way into the back, past secret doors which aren't half as wonderful as the old secret doors.

The team looks busier than when they got in: Jack's holed up in his sterile, joyless office, his occasional shouts coming through the thin walls; Gwen's got her nose in her monitor; Dr. Pol is noisy in their medical bay, crashing and bashing her surgical tools into place; fuck-all what Albert's doing. Only Lois notices when he comes in, and smiles politely to him. Ianto nods back. He's not back to himself yet, and surrounded here with the reminders of the things he's lost, things they've all lost, isn't helping with his composure.

Gwen waves idly at him, not moving from her screen. The police found something, if he recognises the website she's cracked into. She's occupied. Besides, Gwen doesn't remember what today means. Time has stitched together in her mind.

Stuffing his hands into his pockets, and not wanting to show the others how at sea he is, Ianto takes two steps towards Jack's office before veering to the med bay. As he reaches the doorway, Dr. Pol turns to see him. She's frustrated by whatever she's doing, that much is clear, but she spares a hello.

"Need any help?" he asks her, hearing the icy edge of his own sanity cracking in his words.

She stares at him, clearly noticing, then stretches out one arm. Her odd fingers sway in indication. "I can't put the fribbling tools away."

Grateful for a problem to solve, no matter how minor, Ianto instantly turns to the task of sorting out why all Dr. Pol's various scalpels, clamps, and prods won't fit neatly into their assigned places. It's physics with a side of Tetris, neither of which are his greatest strengths, but he manages whilst she stands aside, watching.

"You alright?" she asks, and he wants to laugh, just a bit. Dr. Pol's species is otherwise unknown on this world, she herself a member of a dying race not dissimilar to the bald potatoey Sontarans. But with her dark, curly wig and her broad Swansea accent, she can pass as a human with no comments. She's got a lovely little house on Meteor Street, and has her neighbours over regularly for dinners and games. Not, he reminds himself, the sort of dinners and games that would require Torchwood's interventions, either, at least not unless they brought a bottle of a good vintage and a dish to pass.

She's easy to be around, not like Gwen or Lois who were there but no longer remember, or Albert who's frankly odious when he's not saving the planet or rescuing kittens. Ianto exhales. "I'm fine. Had a bit of a scare. Nothing to worry about." He nearly calls her "Polly," but that's Jack's nickname alone. Ianto is still earning his place with her and the rest.

She squeezes his arm kindly. "It's that kind of day."

He wonders if she remembers, or if her memories have been sanded over the way Lois and Gwen's memories have been, the way Rhiannon doesn't recall that he died, or that he came back. It's still better than before, when he stood in front of her shouting and finally sobbing as she couldn't see who he was at all, when he went to Jack and Gwen and they couldn't see, when he returned and one of his friends shot him as a stranger.

It's better now.

He's only going a bit mad.

Like the sound of a heavenly choir performing their celestial warm-up, Jack's door slams open, rattling the frame. He's incensed at whomever he last spoke to, and that means this is usually the best time to go back to the outer office and hide.

Ianto stays in place, watching. Jack's in a growling mood. If he's bright, he'll go to Gwen's station first, because she's least afraid to snap right back at him and shake him out of it. He's not as smart today, and stomps over to pass his bad mood onto Albert. That's fine by Ianto, who takes the delayed opportunity to flee. It's not that he feels better; it's that as much as watching Jack tear into Albert would be fun, god knows where he'll turn next.

Back in front of his computer, Ianto sees one of his trace programs - thank you, Tosh - has picked up something likely to be alien. Rather than dart out, he makes himself sit and perform the basic research. What is it mostly likely to be, what are the potential harms, and how much is this going to cost him out of the false shop's small budget? He places a call to one of his contacts at the newspaper, whose online archives provided the seed.

Jessamyn Shirani is fifteen years his senior, and flirts with him like a schoolgirl. Ianto flirts back whenever possible, with a touch of the outrageous cribbed from Jack's best lines. Jessamyn knows about Jack, which makes her believe Ianto's a safe flirting partner. She's not wrong.

She's also a perfect source for recalling tidbits she wrote up months ago as human interest pieces: grannies who knit for the sick babies, kiddies with amazing maths skills, and people who perform semi-heroic rescues such as the lifeguard who does his job. It's that last which has caught Ianto's attention, and the miraculous span of time the man spent underwater rescuing a young girl. Jessamyn recalls the article, and the lifeguard, and enough details to make Ianto certain.

He drops the "Closed" sign over the door, and leaves his usual note for the others, along with the address. He signs and dates the note without thinking, and then he nearly rips it to shreds, settling for crumpling the paper.

* * *

There's no alien artefact, but there is an alien. The lifeguard's home planet is aquatic. He's keeping a low profile, and he's a vegan. Ianto gives him a Jack Harkness "we'll be watching" speech, abbreviated at the fish-bloke's eyeroll. The post arrives as they talk. Ianto catches a glance of bills, and an official-looking letter addressed from Lewisham. It could be Mopolite's legitimate business address, and it could be a coincidence. Ianto doesn't have the right to ask, not yet.

On the way back, he decides to phone Steven. They can chat about the dog, which Alice named Dribble for appropriate reasons and which Steven insists on calling Batman when Alice isn't listening. The poor pup doesn't know her own name, and Ianto is staying out of the argument as much as he can. As he starts to dial the number, he remembers Steven's at school today.

Steven is at school. Steven is alive. They are alive.

He stops by a shop he doesn't know to make a quick purchase. Instead of driving back to the new Torchwood base, Ianto takes his car - the new one, the one Jack said he ought to have because some days they go different places, but the title is in both names - for a drive. It's not long, not far, and he hasn't been here in years. From one point of view.

The day is too hot. He removes his suit coat, a sudden pain bobbing in his throat. The bag he got at the shop comes with him.

His parents are buried here. The shop only carried cheap flowers, the kind a bloke buys when he's in trouble and needs to mend fences between now and the next cigarette. Mam and Dad have separate plots, which Mam wanted. He drops a bloom on each. There's nothing to say to them, not here. Apparently his own ghost met up with his Dad again, as mad as that sounds. Jack got to meet him. Funny.

He's never been to see his own grave. Time has rewritten itself, bringing him back, erasing him, and at last reweaving him in just in time for the Doctor to (possibly, they suspect) break the whole universe once or twice again. He isn't entirely certain the grave still exists. How can it?

He has to know. He doesn't search long.

His gravestone is simple, but looks old, as though it's weathered all these time storms personally. Had he not known, he'd almost not be able to read his name or the inscription. "Always in our hearts, forever in our thoughts," contains not one but two words he tries never to use. He's childishly been hoping for something else like, "Saved the fucking planet," or even the truly embarrassing yet secretly considered, "Eternal beloved." But no. This will have to do, because this is what happened, even if Gwen and his sister can't even remember that it happened.

Ianto sets down his last burden beside his own stone.

Is another Ianto Jones under here? Is his body rotting under his feet? Which is them is real, and does it matter? The gravestone, uncared for these past several months, bears the remains of old flowers. Someone believed he was here. Part of him believes he's here. No matter what happens to him now or ever, he will be here again. Jack will have to bury him twice.

He has no idea how long he's been lingering when he hears the footsteps behind him. Ianto doesn't even turn.

"Hey," Jack says. "I wondered if I'd find you here."

"I saw the date on my computer when we came in to work. I had to know."

Jack steps up next to him, his own coat abandoned in the day's heat. He wore it before. Ianto remembers even if no-one else does. Jack's got a small spray of flowers. Ianto glances at them, then up at Jack.

"Honestly?"

"I remembered, all right?" His own voice is cracking, the way Ianto has been cracking these last few hours, the way Jack has been cracking since he woke needing to assure himself Ianto was still alive the best way he knew how. He's not recovered from the initial loss, not even now. Everything from the slump of his spine to the dead look in his eyes gives the game away. Ianto might or might not be laid to rest beneath their feet, but Jack's been dying each day since.

Tomorrow will only be worse.

Crawling across glass, Jack says, "What did you bring?" Without a word from Ianto, he reaches down and opens the paper bag. Dark chocolate bars fall out, littering the ground.

"I miss her, too." He bumps Jack's shoulder. "S'better than flowers, anyway."

That brings a fast smile to Jack's face, welcome and fleeting. "Did I ever tell you about the first time I saw you die?"

Only by squeezing his fist so tight he nearly draws blood does Ianto not react. He forces himself to think back. "Aboard the _Valiant_."

"Yeah."

They stand for a while, each of them in his own thoughts. Jack's got his long-carried burdens to bear. Ianto's sure he's losing his mind today, but perhaps only for today. He's dead, there's no question. The proof is at his feet, now slightly obscured with chocolate foil wrappers which are only going to stop the melting sweets for so long. Yet he is alive. The pulse in his hand, reaching for Jack who clasps him like a rope from a rescue ship, that gives him all the evidence he needs. He's the cat in the box: everything and nothing until someone looks in to find him. That someone is deep in his memories right now. Ianto died, but he's not the one who needs saving.

"The load's been light," Ianto says. "Let's take a day tomorrow and go see him."

Jack turns away from his contemplation of others' mortality. He nods. Ianto will have to arrange the visit. Alice won't mind hearing from him, not as much as from Jack, especially tomorrow. There's a strong chance she won't speak to her father at all, and a very slight chance she'll shoot him. But they'll be there for Steven, with a cake if necessary, getting him through his deathday.

Ianto isn't the only one whose day is today. He wasn't the one who woke up in a makeshift morgue surrounded by bodies. "How many people died today? I mean, then."

Jack shrugs. He carries their deaths with him as well, but the sack over his shoulder is lighter. "Too many. Some came back, the way you did."

They can ask the number from the Mr. Copper Foundation, if he wants the exact count. It won't be enough, not to make up for any of the worthless losses. He's alive today thanks to a fairytale woman, and that's what he needs to know.

"All right." The thick air in his chest loosens. This is the cemetery where his parents are, and various relatives he doesn't much remember. And some man at his feet, who happened to share his name. Nothing important remains. "We should go. Lois will have lunch in."

Jack pauses. He hasn't done anything so maudlin as to stroke the headstone, or even speak to the grass. He's left the flowers he's never going to send, and his eyes are closed for a moment, but Jack Harkness doesn't pray. At best, he sends notes of complaint or thanks to the universe at large, signed with a wet kiss and, knowing Jack, a soft bite.

"Right," Jack says at last. They walk hand in hand back to the cars.

* * *

The End

* * *

As always, my three favourite words are, "I liked this."


End file.
